


the hallowed traveller, righteously incandescent

by bubblewrapstargirl



Series: the lone traveller multiverse [23]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Jon Snow didn't go to The Wall, Angst with a Happy Ending, B plus S equals M, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Incest, Older Woman/Younger Man, R Plus L Equals J, Rated For Violence, Rituals, Shadow Binding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-04-01 04:03:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13990065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: Jon grows in confidence as he explores, battles and braves the secrets of Westeros, shadow magic and his own bloodline.





	1. Chapter 1

Braavos was beautiful. Jon was in awe of just how beautiful; the small grey stone buildings crammed in a charming manner on every island, no matter how small, leaning against one another in a tumble down fashion. He had gaped in awe as they sailed beneath the legendary Titan, the gigantic behemoth not done justice by any description or picture in Maester Luwin’s books. The archipelago was surrounded by purple Braavosi ships, with a multitude of other colours bobbing in the harbour representing galleys, longships and other vessels from all over the known world.

The hundred islands were connected by thin stone bridges, spanning the many canals, which were heavy with barge traffic. Some of the barges were excessively elaborate, their wooden rooms covered by reams of expensive satin and lace. The market skiffs were not as well crafted, but their cotton awnings were still dyed in merry shades of green, yellow, orange and red. The Braavosi were cheerful, friendly people, prone to laughter and bursting into song.

“Courtesans,” whistled Vaaro, as two intricately painted barges passed close by them. He was a fellow sailor with which Jon had become rather friendly.

“Some the most expensive, well-bred whores in the known world.” Vaaro continued, grinning at Jon’s look of surprise. “Not like pox-ridden wenches found in any tavern in Westeros. These are women of class and style. They say the Nightingale is the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Vaaro discreetly motioned to a man with a thin rapier threaded through his belt, who was dressed flamboyantly in red and orange. A stark contrast to the vast majority of Braavosi, clad in charcoal grey, or deep, dark shades of blue, black and purple. Though this man's shirt collar was still loose and low-slung, showing off his bristly chest; a typical design here, Jon noted unenthusiastically.

Jon’s own dark clothes blended well in Braavos, but he was uncomfortable with the amount of flesh on display from the general populace. He flushed and shuddered to imagine coming into contact with a courtesan, judging by the exposed middles of some highborn women, where sections of their dresses were lacking material.

“Braavos fight to defend the honour of their most admired courtesan.” Vaaro explained, as the man in orange passed down the street, slowly perusing the market.

“The honour of a whore?” Jon repeated, puzzled at the conflicting sentiments.

“Ah, but I already said, there are not like your common wench, boy. They are women of substance, trained in conversation, as well as the sensual arts. Only the wealthiest men can afford to be entertained by them.”

Jon wondered briefly what it would be like to be the bastard of a courtesan, before Vaaro regained his attention.

“Be careful to always remove your sword before the sun falls, in Braavos.” said the experienced sailor, “Braavos will only challenge man at night. Then they will duel at the Moon Pool, and the water dancers would run ragged around a green boy like you. They are probably the quickest, wiliest killers in Essos.”

Vaaro was an experienced sailor, roughly fifteen years Jon’s senior, a Summer Islander with a heavy brow and a large, amiable smile, and entirely bald. He had hoops in both his ears, and was missing a tooth toward the front of his mouth. He dressed somewhat like a Braavo himself, in bright, contrasting colours, including a bright purple sash he wore about his waist, and a green feather which hung from a gold chain from his left ear. He clapped Jon on the shoulder when they first met, and immediately challenged him to a fight. Though he was intimidated by the older man’s height and board build, honour would not let him decline, and he had soon found himself thoroughly trounced.

Jon had only been trained in the manner of a Westerosi knight; but Vaaro carried a Dothraki arakh, when he was not using his native goldheart bow. Jon had spent most of the bout throwing himself away from lightning quick jabs and blows, trying to avoid Vaaros’ spinning steel. Jon was utterly exhausted and decorated with a new scar on his cheek, when the rather one-sided fight was done. Panting heavily and sweating in his leathers, Jon had allowed himself to be hauled to his feet and clapped heartily on the back.

“Good!” roared Vaaro, “we will make a sailor of you, Jon Snow.”

Vaaro was impressed by Ghost, who garnered appreciative, yet wary looks from everyone. Vaaro had been the first to dare approach Jon’s rapidly growing wolf, with a tasty hunk of chicken in his outstreched hand. Ghost was easily bribed. They had been firm friends ever since, though Ghost stuck close to Jon once they had alighted on shore.

The harbour master had tried to prevent Ghost from wandering around the Free City, without being collared and tethered by a leash. Jon hadn’t known what to say in response. Ghost was his friend and companion; he had never thought of him like a common hound in need of discipline. Ghost had been a welcome piece of home, a wonderful present from his sister. They had bonded immediately, Ghost following him about everywhere and curling up beside him wherever they slept; his warm chambers in New Castle, or the gently rocking hull of the Lady Myriame, the ship he had been assigned to.

The Captain of said ship, the younger brother of the lord of Ramsgate Castle, was not impressed by the Braavosi’s terms. Though he had barely exchanged a word with Jon, since welcoming him aboard and setting down the rules he was expected to adhere to, he had bristled at the Harbour Master’s tone.

“I thought I had docked in Braavos, the free city where men are truly free. Or are we in Volantis where there are five slaves collared and leashed, to every free man?” He barked rhetorically at the spluttering harbour master.

“That is not a man, it is a savage beast!” the fussy little man with wiggling mustaches argued, pointing an accusatory finger at Ghost, who promptly belied his words by giving a wide yawn, and lying down with his head on his paws.

“Truly a terrifying sight,” sneered Captain Skrith Woolfield, whilst the crew and onlookers sniggered. “Though you are right a direwolf is no man. They are creatures of magic, great intelligence and cunning. No doubt Braavos is too unrefined for the presence of such a stunning creature. So perhaps I will take my custom elsewhere.”

Flusted, the harbour master began to offer his apologies and excuses, and Ghost was allowed to roam free from shackles, but not without Jon. Which was a fair bargain, as intimidated locals may try to capture or harm him, thinking him a common beast.

Later, when Jon offered Captain Woolfield his thanks, for he had no collar for Ghost, nor did he know how his wolf would react to such treatment, the man waved him away.

“No man will speak to the son of Lord Eddard in such a way, not in my hearing.” he said firmly, “You know I do not commonly take live cargo, to avoid the mess and hassle. But your Ghost is rather a refined beast. I have been proud to host the living sigil of my liege lord.”

Thus Jon and Ghost were free to roam the city together, enticed by the different smells and sounds. Ghost did get up to mischief by sticking his snout into bushels of exotic fruits or beneath market tables, until Jon succeeded in pulling him away.

After the first day, the folk had grown used to the sight of a young man walking with a regal, pure white wolf, and word had spread about the supposed magical properties of such a beast. Merchants and highborn representatives began offering Jon obscene amounts of money to purchase Ghost. Jon was not tempted, and his answer was always a short and flat ‘no’. When one merchant was particularly persistent and approached Ghost incautiously, he almost lost a hand for his trouble, when Ghost closed his teeth around his wrist. The man bled profusely, while Jon wrestled Ghost away. There were far fewer offers after that, though some still tried their luck.

Jon put them out his mind, too intrigued by the various temples, dedicated to exotic gods from all over the world. He knew all religions were welcome in Braavos. But he was still surprised to see so many large, intimidating red temples for a mysterious god from the far east, whose preachers lined many of the streets and spoke of the cleansing power of fire.

The largest and most extravagant temples belonged to the Moonsinger faith, of which Jon knew little. But he was surprised to notice drowned men, like Theon’s uncle Aeron Greyjoy, in the long robes of their order. Pouring salt water liberally over the heads of believers in the Drowned God. There was a statue to the Pale Child Bakkalon outside a sellsword garrison. Another of the Hooded Wayfarer, placed where beggars commonly sat, pleading for coins and scraps.

After taking in his fill of the city of a hundred islands for one particular day, Jon headed back to the Lady Myriam, with Ghost, Vaaro and several other drunken shipmates in tow. The other men were weaving about on the cobblestones and attempting a poor rendition of ‘The Bear and the Maiden Fair’, when she appeared from a side street.

Clad in the rich red robes of her order, the priestess stood regally, her hood pulled up to cast her face in shadow, though night had not yet fallen and it was hardly cool. Her skin was a pale, creamy white, her stature tall. Jon could not guess her age, though her youth was apparent, as there was naught a winkle to her flesh and her breasts were high and full. Her red lips were set into a secretive smirk, below two equally red eyes, burning brilliantly from her attractive face.

Jon watched as she smoothly floated toward him, until he could see nothing but her smouldering eyes, and the equally bold ruby glittering at her throat.

“I have looked into the flames, and there I saw you, my lord,” she whispered, her words crackling like freshly lit kindling.

Jon said nothing, unnerved and intrigued in equal measure.


	2. Chapter 2

Her eyes were mesmerizing, even under the cover of darkness. Jon wanted to deny her claims; wanted his thoughts and dreams free from her image and bewitching words. Yet even as he ruminated on how to achieve it, he knew it to be a self-delusion. He was rapidly becoming obsessed with the red woman and her seductive, tempting form. Was this what his father had felt for his mother? This irrepressible pull toward her, to lose himself in base, animalistic urges, so strong that the loss of his honour and virtue seemed merely inevitable? When Jon eventually worked up the nerve to ask Vaaro if the Red preachers took vows of chastity when they joined the Order, the older man saw through him immediately.

"She is not for you, Jon," Vaaro said seriously, extremely firm in his denial. "Their loyalty to their god is absolute; she will never forsake her fire lord for a husband and children. At most, she will lie with you to birth terrible shadow demons. And when she takes your seed, she'll take your soul."

That had sounded like irrational superstitious nonsense to Jon; but then the ways of the Asshai'i were shrouded in mystery, and chilling notions. With a history as vicious as it was confounding. Yet Jon could not stop thinking of her; despite the supposed dangers, and the uncouth manner in which he pictured her in the darkest of his wanton dreams. In the morn Jon blushed with shame, swearing that he would put her out of his mind for good. But each night he broke his vow once again. For her part, the Red Priestess did not allow herself to be easily forsaken; following Jon about whenever he alighted the ship, seducing him with every bloody smile. Constantly claiming a great destiny was in store for him, when he embraced her god. Her insidious whispers snaked into his ears, to coil inside his mind and burrow deep.

However, her attention was not solely about conversion. For the other men said they had never been persistently pursued, nor promised feats and achievements of note by the followers of R'hllor. Yet the Red woman dogged Jon's steps tirelessly, ceaseless in her mission to ensnare him.

"You cannot escape your fate," she purred, "The Lord of Light has chosen you as his champion, and you cannot run from your destiny, Jon Snow."

When at last they received their orders to set sale, Jon had to clamp down on his urge to tell her, nor plead; "Come with me." He was deeply unnerved by his urge to promise her anything. Jon let out a sigh of relief when they at last lifted anchor, and beautiful Braavos began to drift from view.

His serenity lasted, like a petal floating on the breeze right up until the moment it was snatched from the air by jealous, grasping fingers; and the Priestess stepped out from the cabins below deck, pushing back her hood to grace him with her blood red smile.


	3. Chapter 3

Jon lay in the heart of the hull, cresting on the horizon of sleep, riding on the wings of a giant raven: coal-black and almost invisible against the starless sky. The bird was strangely smooth; with hard, small feathers, completely flat and radiating an inner warmth. Together they dipped and glided across the warm air currents, man and beast taut together, seamlessly joined as though they shared one flesh. Jon tasted the bitter clouds, inhaling a lungful of ash, feeling the whisper of promises brush past his frigid cheek, and awoke with a loud gasp. The dream clutched at him with bloody claws, refusing to be shaken until his wide eyes finally adjusted to the gloom.

The air below deck was warm with the breath of fifty men, reeking of foreign produce and spices. When he licked his lips, Jon tasted the ever-present tang of salt. Unbidden and unnerved, he carefully picked his way across his slumbering shipmates, Ghost-quiet. Bloody eyes stared balefully at his retreating back, his wolf regarding him with resignation. Jon made his way unhindered to the top deck, a spectre of snow and shadow.

He was not surprised to find the Lady Melisandre, tall and still against a sky of burning stars and thick, quickly-moving, discernable clouds. She was clad in a scarlet dress with a deeply plunging neckline. Her delicate fingers rested on the paint-chipped wood of the ship, two pale spiders, poised to snap it in twain. Jon approached her cautiously, dragged ever forward by some bloodthirsty compulsion to see her face. The bare moonlight cast it into sharp relief, the heart shape distorted by the ripple of her dark hair.

In the pounding silence of the dead of night, the crack of sails against the wind became the boom of a whip; and the burbling water lapping incessantly at the hull, the death throes of a beast with a torn throat, drowning in its own blood. Heat radiated out from every direction, even the vast heavens above, pregnant with malice.

Despite the presence of the night-watchmen, they were alone; two islands, black and red, separated by shadows. At last, she turned from the endless dark ocean to favour Jon with her smouldering smirk of a smile; a dangerous red wound across her face.

“Tell me, Jon Snow,” She purred seductively, “Why do you drink from the sea?”

Jon stared at her in dumb confusion, his jaw working uselessly, as his brow furrowed into a frown. He considered the possibility that he was still dreaming.

“I don’t,” he denied, with the hurt tone of the falsely accused.

Lady Melisandre’s eyes were maroon in the night, the colour of dried, flaking blood. Jon shivered, suddenly cold in his thick woolen shirt, despite the heat of the wooden planks beneath his feet, which had been soaking up the sun all day for weeks.

“I have seen you,” she countered, “Making your oaths to false gods, pledging fealty to trees.”

Jon pouted, immediately offended, “I follow the gods of my Father, and his Father before him. We keep to the old gods in the North. Our blood is the blood of the First Men.”

Her smile only grew more indulgent, as though Jon were a babe insistent on staying awake, despite their drooping eyelids and lagging limbs.

“There is only one god, Jon Snow,” she swore, “the Lord of Light, who made all men, and his cup is the only succour. To drink from any other is to swallow poison, surely as if you gorged upon salty sea water.”

The hair on the back of Jon’s neck rose, as the fervour in her eyes grew into a roaring flame. Involuntarily, he stook a swift step back.

“You have nothing to fear from me, Jon Snow,” she whispered, her pert breasts held high by her revealing dress.

Jon wanted to reach out and caress her flesh, to slip his hand below the edge of the fabric to cup one bosom, to feel the nipple harden at his pinch. Would she continue to smile indulgently at him then? Or hiss, whimper and squirm away?

He had striven to prove his blood was not tainted, despite being born from virtueless lust. He would not debase himself. Jon would not break that vow; he would not give Lady Catelyn the satisfaction. But even if she never found out, he would know, and that would be punishment enough. Jon clenched his hands into fists, to better hide the tremours running through them, shaken by his impure thoughts.

“I’m not so sure,” Jon replied quietly, thinking how easy this woman aroused him, how quick his honour fell by the wayside just at the sight of her. “I only know you have confused me with someone else, my lady. Some valiant knight or lord. I’m half baseborn. A bastard.”

He swallowed thickly, the words still painful on his tongue despite all the years he had heard them. 

“Your blood is noble,” Lady Melisandre insisted, her milk-pale bosom heaving with every fevered breath, “You are the Prince who was Promised, the Lord’s champion. You do not see it yet, Jon Snow, but you will. You will save us all.”

Leery, Jon skittered away, back down to his hammock, the thump of his blood thundering in his ears.

Lady Melisandre may be a rare beauty, any man could attest to that. Even her voice was lovely. But Vaaro was right; that seductive beauty was tainted by her zealotry, and the two could not be separated. Jon would be a fool to believe anything different.

 _I am no hero,_ he thought, _I am just a man, consumed with the sins of the flesh, just like any other._


End file.
